


A Hospital Full

by aloneintherain



Series: Support System [2]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: Comfort, Fluff, Gen, Hospitals, Hurt Peter, Hurt/Comfort, New York City, New Yorkers, Nurses, Oblivious Peter, Police, Protectiveness, Schmoop, Sick Peter, original characters used to further plot - Freeform, peter realises how much new york cares about him, protective new york
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-05
Updated: 2015-09-05
Packaged: 2018-04-19 00:14:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,092
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4725518
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aloneintherain/pseuds/aloneintherain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Peter realises how much New York cares about Spider-Man.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Hospital Full

**Author's Note:**

> Often in Spider-Man media, I see Peter going through so much without any real sympathy or help, and I hate that. This fic is my attempt to rectify that.
> 
> This is a sequel to (A City Full OF) Helping Hands. I suppose it's not necessary reading, but a quick summary; Peter allowed himself to fall pray to a dangerous illness to save New York, and, when people tried to help him and take his mask off, Peter ran off and disappeared. New York panicked. Eventually, his landlord (Brian) found and took him to the hospital. New York celebrated the return of their hero.

Peter’s sleep was plagued by fever dreams of swirling, coloured smoke, and screaming pedestrians. At night, Peter thrashed, sweat soaking through his thin hospital sheets, and dreamt of hands all over him, pulling at his mask, touching his burning skin. 

He jolted awake late into the night, sweaty and confused, at the sound of a nearby noise. One of the younger nurses was checking over the machines by Peter’s bed. The nurses had been a constant stream in and out of his hospital room since Peter was first brought in less than a week ago. Peter instantly relaxed, muscles going lax and unconcerned at the familiar sight.

“Sorry,” the nurse whispered. “I didn’t mean to wake you. It’s just these stupid things.” He thumped a bulky monitor with the flat of his palm. “They keep malfunctioning. You’d think, with how expensive they are, they’d be faultless.” The nurse frowned, and tried to fiddle with the buttons on the machines side. “ _Ugh_ , how does the hospital afford these hunks of junk?”

“By giving their patients ridiculously expensive hospital bills?” Peter joked. The nurse snorted. Peter idly traced the starch white of his sheets, running his fingers over the scratchy surface of his blankets. He felt all the air in his lungs freeze in a sudden, painful realisation.

“I don’t have health insurance,” Peter said slowly. His dawning horror was obvious in his voice.

The nurse laughed. “What?”

“I don’t…” Peter looked around the hospital room. He had the room to himself, and a collection of medicinal machines, and the antidote they’d specially administered to combat Peter’s illness—it would all have been expensive. So, so expensive. “Oh, my _god_ , I can’t afford this! I’m—I’m going to be in so much _debt_ —”

Peter’s breathing was beginning to speed up, the sign of an incoming panic attack. The nurse grabbed a nearby oxygen mask, and eased Peter into it. The air was reassuring, and it helped soothe some of the tightness in Peter’s chest, but he still scrambled desperately at the nurse’s hands, eyes blown wide. 

“Calm down,” the nurse told him firmly. Peter wheezed and shook his head wildly. “No, _calm down,_ Spidey. You’re not in debt. Your medical bills have already been paid.”  

Peter stilled, lowering his shaky hands. He blinked up at the nurse.

“Sorry for freaking you out,” said the nurse, “but I thought someone had already told you that?” 

Peter shook his head. His breathing was beginning to even out, the oxygen mask still in place.

The nurse winced, guilty, and dutifully began to explain; “Well, they have been. Right after you were brought in to the hospital, there was lots of press coverage. Reporters kept trying to sneak into the hospital to get information on your condition. Eventually, someone found out that the hospital was planning on billing you for your stay. Like, billing you a _lot_.” The nurse waved hurried hands at Peter, realising his words might set the hero into another panic. “But you don’t have to worry! Everyone got really angry about it. There was even a demonstration outside of the hospital, people with signs and everything, demanding that they didn’t make you pay for hospital expenses after you’d gotten hurt saving the city. The hospital staff got angry, too. Some people threatened to resign.” 

Peter would have thought it was strange that he had missed so much, but he hadn’t been aware for the majority of his stay in the hospital. So far, everything had been a dazed blur, his thoughts muddled by an unshakeable fever.

Peter supposed that, considering the debilitating illness that had almost killed him, it was probably right that he’d missed a lot. 

“The hospital refused to drop the expenses,” continued the nurse. “Then, someone set up a page on GoFundMe.com to pay for your medical bills. Hundreds of people donated to it. People from other states and other countries were donating too, but most of it came from New Yorkers.” The nurse looked at Peter, head ducked, eyes lowered, seeming to go shy under the hero’s gaze. “I donated to it, too. Lots of the hospital staff did.”

Peter swallowed. His mouth felt impossibly dry. 

“So, yeah.” The nurse— _god_ , Peter didn’t even know his name, didn’t know any of these people’s names; he vowed he’d start learning—shrugged, like it wasn’t a big deal. “All your hospital bills have been covered. Don’t worry about it.” 

Peter pulled away the oxygen mask, and asked, incredulous, “ _Strangers_ paid my hospital bill?” The nurse nodded. “ _Why_?”

The nurse frowned. “What do you mean ‘why?’”

“Why did they do that? They didn’t have to give up their money for me. They _shouldn’t_ have! Not—not for _me_ —”

The nurse, previously shy and almost embarrassed, straightened, jaw tightening. “They should’ve. _Of course_ they should have, Spidey, _especially_ for you. This city owes you so much.” He shook his head, and his words dropped a little, reduced to something quieter, but no less sincere, “You don’t realise how important you are.”

“Important?”

“Important.”

Peter shook his head. “I’m not—I’m just…” 

“You _are_.” The nurse sighed, scrubbing a tired hand through his hair. “It’s late, you should try and get back to sleep. Kala will kill me if you’re worse tomorrow because I kept you up.”

The nurse left with soft footsteps, and Peter was left staring up at the hospital ceiling. He didn’t get back to sleep.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Peter had remained under police watch throughout the duration of his stay. A dozen or so police officers came and went. Most of them hovered on the threshold of his hospital room, as though afraid to intrude. Some came and sat in the plastic chairs by Peter’s bedside, greeting him almost shyly. 

Most, though, stayed in the corridor. The nurses would often tell him about it. Samantha, a younger nurse with bouncing curls and freckled cheeks, would sometimes come into Peter’s room flustered, twisting at her hair, and Peter would know officer Simmons was visiting. (Though Peter began to wonder if the crushing officer Simmons came to visit _him_ , or came to visit _Samantha_.)

Apparently, the heavy police presence was because they were protecting Peter from reporters hoping for a story, or criminals hoping for revenge. A part of Peter—the same part that would never forget what it had been like years ago, when he’d only just established himself as Spider-Man, and the majority of police officers shot and cursed and distrusted him with all of their being—thought they might be monitoring him, like Peter was a criminal. Waiting for him to slip. Waiting for Peter to get better so they could arrest him. 

The nurse primarily in charge of Peter—Kala, he had learned, with her disapproving frown, messy hair and dark skin— had frowned when Peter had confessed this. She’d told him he was being paranoid.

Maybe he was, but it didn’t seem likely that so many police officers would spend so much time looking out for Spider-Man. Maybe they felt sorry for the hospital staff, and were here to protect them from possible criminals? Protect them from Spider-Man himself?

There were several officers Peter liked, though. For one, there was officer Davis.

Early Wednesday morning, five days since Peter had been brought into the hospital, the man came into Peter’s room, glancing around for any lingering nurses.

Finding none, he approached Peter’s bed. The man was portly and tall and loomed over Peter, who was propped up on pillows. He smiled when Peter meet his eyes.

“Spidey,” greeted the man, holding out his right hand. “Joe Davis. I’ve been meaning to introduce myself.”

Peter took the man’s hand. The handshake was warm, not too firm. Davis’ palm was soft against his.

“Um,” Peter said, awkwardly. He felt a little thrown; usually, Peter met police officers in the streets, in the midst of a super-villain attack, not while laid up in a hospital bed. “Hello?" 

Davis looked around the ward for any nurses, not subtle in the least, before pulling a paper bag out of his uniform jacket.

“I was in here a few months ago,” Davis confessed, “bullet to the thigh, so I personally know how bad the hospital food is.”

Peter fumbled with the paper bag, shaky hands struggling with the knotted top. Davis made a sound of realisation, and snagged the bag back, opening it quickly. He tipped the paper bag over Peter’s blanketed lap. Out tumbled pastries of various sizes—a cinnamon roll, donuts, tiny custard puffs sprinkled with icing sugar.

Peter made a high, excited sound of pure delight. Davis smiled proudly.

“For me?” Peter asked, not quite believing.

“For you.” 

Peter dug in without preamble. His fingers were quickly dusted in icing sugar, frosting smeared on the tip of his nose. Peter said around a full mouth, “F’anks!” 

Davis snagged a custard puff, and leant against the bed’s metal frame as he bit into it. “Anytime, Spidey,” Davis said.

Samantha—a blush sat high in her cheeks; Simmons must have been here—returned then, carrying fresh towels, but stopped in the middle of the room when she spotted the pastries in Peter’s lap. Sprung.

“Hey,” she scolded, “you’re not supposed to be eating those kinds of foods! Nothing diary and with so much _sugar_ —”

Peter shoved three custard puffs into his mouth, hiding them from the nurse. “W’at are ‘ou talkin’ ab’t?” 

Davis grabbed the remaining pastry—a donut of all things, pink with rainbow sprinkles—and took a huge bite out of it. “No’ing to see ‘ere,” said the officer around his mouth-full. Peter smiled up at Davis, his own cheeks bulging with custard puffs.

Samantha pointed at Davis. “I don’t care if you’re a cop, I _will_ ban you, okay?” She pointed next at Peter. “And _you_ —” Peter smiled a frosting covered smile up at the nurse. “—are going to regret eating all that later when you’re throwing it all back up.”

Peter swallowed the last of the pastries, and beamed. “Worth it.”

 

* * *

 

 

“I have made a grave mistake,” Peter decided. “A grave—grave—”

Peter’s stomach ached, his throat burning, and still, he continued to heave. The tiles were hard and cold beneath his knees. His grip on the toilet bowl would have cracked it, had the illness not weakened him considerably.

A hand rubbed circles between his shoulder blades. Peter made a pained little noise as his stomach spasmed, and Kala gently shushed him.

Peter had woken up sweaty and gross and barely coherent. He knew Kala didn’t deserve to have to deal with him, but here she was, decked out in pale scrubs and rolled up sleeves, armed with an unflinching gaze and a kind heart.

She remained unimpressed by Peter’s failed jokes. She didn’t shy from his gaze, wasn’t intimidated by the constant presence of his mask. Peter liked her.

“The pastries,” Peter choked out between shaky gasps for air, “weren’t worth it.” 

The rubbing continued, but she sighed. “Spidey,” she said, words thick with exasperation and tired worry, a side effect of prolonged proximity to Peter. “How many times do I need to tell you to stop talking when you’re sick?”

“I can’t deprive the world of my charming wit,” Peter said weakly, before turning and retching up bile and blood. The nurse eyed him with resignation.

“This,” she said, watching as Peter heaved, blood and spit dribbling over his exposed chin, “is what I’m talking about.” 

Peter choked out a half-incoherent ‘sorry’, but she hushed him, and continued rubbing at his back. 

“No,” Peter persisted. “You shouldn’t have to—” His stomach rebelled. More vomit, more blood. Kala continued rubbing at his back. “You shouldn’t have to look after me.” 

“It’s my job, genius.”

That only made Peter feel worse. “No, I—”

“Yes,” she insisted. “ _Yes_ , Spidey. You need someone to look after you. You’re sick, and I happen to be a nurse. Looking after sick people is what I _do_.” 

Peter rested his forehead against the cool rim of the toilet, shutting his eyes beneath his mask. “It’s gross,” he murmured, petulant.

“Yeah, it is, but that’s why I’m here. To look after you, dumbass.”

“Pretty sure you shouldn’t call your patients—” Peter choked. Kala carefully pushed at the back of his neck, positioning him into the toilet. She still remembered the first time she’d met him; he’d thrown up blood on her white tennis shoes, and then he had searched wildly around, shaky hands desperate for something to help him clean her up, apologises spilling like a litany from his lips. It had endeared him to her immediately. 

“—dumbasses,” he finally finished. He opened his mouth to say something more, but his joke was lost around gasping breaths for air and pained retching.

Kala sighed, her eyes kind, and continued rubbing soothing circles into his aching skin.

 

 

* * *

 

 

It was nearing the end of the day, the sun beginning to set, the hospital staff starting to change from day shift to night shift. People were preparing to work long into the night, or leaving with yawns and waves goodbye.

Surely then, no one would notice one more person slipping out of the hospital.  

Peter made sure no nurses were nearby before stripping out of his mask and slipping out the door of his room. He would have climbed the outside of the hospital—he’d seen where they stashed his suit, after all; in the back of a cupboard—but he thought he’d only injure himself further, and wanted to be discreet.

Nobody spared Peter a second glance. One scruffy teenage boy with fever-bright eyes and healing rashes creeping along his arms was nothing special in a hospital. 

He tried to stride purposely, maybe find a stash of clothes or scrubs to borrow, but his thoughts were still foggy and unhelpful. His wobbly legs led him deeper into the hospital, his eyes unable to properly process the directional signs he passed. Before he knew it, he was lost in a place that had no record of a ‘Peter Parker’ ever checking in. 

Collapsing in one of the chairs lining a half-empty ward, Peter let himself slump, eyes sliding closed. A headache was thumping mercilessly against his eyes.

“Sir?” A tiny hand pulled at the hem of his hospital gown, and Peter looked up, dazed and blurry-eyed. A small boy sat before him, wearing a smaller, identical version of Peter’s gown. The boy peered at him, tiny face scrunching up in concern. “Are you okay, sir?”

Peter couldn’t help but smile. “I’m—I’m okay, I guess. Are you?”

The boy fiddled with the coloured markers and paper clasped in one of his pudgy fists. He cocked his head, and asked,“Am I what?”

“Are you okay?”

The boy brightened, smiling gap-toothed up at Peter. “Yeah! I’ve been drawing!” 

Peter made an excited sound. “Wow, really? Can I see?”

The boy grinned even wider, and nodded, happy to have made a sudden friend. He unfolded his drawing, presenting it to Peter. 

It was a blurry red figure, head too large, legs angled awkwardly to both sides. There were checkered black lines over the figure, and a clumsily drawn symbol on its chest. Peter felt all the breath leave him in a rush.

“Is this…?” 

“It’s Spider-Man!” The boy leaned in and whispered, “Mom and everyone says he’s _here_ in the hospital.”   

The boy looked at Peter expectantly, supposedly waiting for Peter’s awe at that revelation. Peter only managed a slightly garbled, ‘oh.’ 

The boy took Peter’s answer in stride, and continued to babble on happily; “People keep giving me ‘get well soon’ presents and looking after me. Mom was really worried because Spidey’s family might not know he’s in the hospital, so then who would look after him, and give him presents, and pat his hair when his tummy hurts like my family does? So I drew that, because everyone deserves presents when they’re feeling yucky.” 

“It’s wonderful,” Peter said quietly. “I think Spider-Man will like it a lot.”

“I drew Spidey a gift too!” A younger girl with braided hair and tiny glasses bounded over. “My dad’s worried about him too, so BAM!” She made a huge hand gesture and jumped, her glasses bouncing at the movement. “My picture will cheer Spidey RIGHT up!”

Another girl, freckled and pigtailed, come over. She slid a drawing onto Peter’s knee, peeking up at him behind shy lashes. “I’m Alecia,” she told Peter in a whisper. “Spidey saved me once. So I... I drew him that.”

Before Peter could inspect it, a nurse in pale green scrubs gathered up the drawings. She shooed the three kids off, urging them to go back to their rooms, or at least “not harass the young man.” Peter tried to tell her that it was fine, that the kids were kind and fun and made him feel happy, but she only frowned, shook her head, and continued bustling them away. 

Peter didn’t ask her which ward he was sat in, or which way the exit was. She seemed strict; he doubted she’d let him go without a fuss and a dozen official forms Peter couldn’t sign without revealing his identity. 

The floor was cold beneath his bare feet, the plastic chair hard against his aching body. The hospital was a stream of activity, but no one stopped to talk to Peter. He’d be glad for the silence, but his lungs were heavy, and the faint taste of copper was settling on his tongue.

His head was throbbing in time with his heartbeat, a steady thump of pain that made thinking hard and his vision swim. Whenever he got like this, Kala was there with the gentle press of a needle. The medicine would make him feel insistently better. Less like this, like the world was too heavy, the very air trying to squeeze him apart. 

He was—He was in a hospital. The hallway was a light coloured vinyl that squeaked underfoot, and the walls were white, and Peter was. He was. He was here, in a plastic chair. He was…

“Peter?” A pair of old leather shoes stepped into view, and someone touched his back. Peter flinched away. “Peter! What are you _doing_ here?!”

Peter tipped his head back, and squinted. “Brian?” His voice was rough, barely audible.

Brian exhaled roughly, and said, low and sympathetic, “What have you done to yourself, kid?”

“I don’t…” Peter stared at his landlord. His face was wrinkled above his plaid button-up, his mouth pressed into a hard, disapproving line, but his eyes were fond. “I got lost?” Peter tried.

“Did’ya leave your mask in your room?” Peter nodded, and Brian seemed relieved. “Oh good, someone didn’t unmask you then. Okay, okay, let’s just—just get you back there.”

Brian successfully levered Peter up, one arm around the hero’s waist. The floor swayed underneath him. Though Peter’s legs felt shaky and uncooperative, Brian kept him upright.

By the time Peter was fully aware of his surroundings, he was tucked into his hospital bed, his mask in place, Kala hovering over him. She fit him with an IV, and fiddled with the bag strung up by his bedside. Brian, sat in a nearby chair, watched over Peter quietly.

“Don’t do that again, bug-brain,” Kala told Peter.

“Uhhm,” Peter managed. He smacked his lips together; the taste of copper was stronger, his mouth wet and full of salvia. He pressed his fingers against his mouth. “What…?”

“You puked into a waste bucket on the second floor,” Brian said.

“Blood or vomit?” Kala asked.

“Blood,” Brian said. Kala and Brian had become something like friends—or, at least, allied conspirators against Peter—in the past week.

Kala swore, checked something on the machinery’s monitor, and swore again. She strode out of the room quickly. 

“Don’t let the moron out of your sight,” Kala called over her shoulder. 

“I won’t!” Brian called after her. Peter blinked sleepily at Brian, drugged and happily unaware. “Peter,” he said, “say ‘I’m a moron’ for me, will you?”

“I’m’a moron,” Peter complied, words slurred, a drunk smile pulling at his lips.

 

 

* * *

 

 

It was a better day; Peter had the strength to sit cross-legged above the blanket, and his thoughts were clear enough to focus on a game of cards.

It also meant Peter had more energy than usual.

“Stop fidgeting,” Brian admonished. He slapped lightly at Peter’s wriggling socked feet.

“I can’t help ittttttt,” Peter whined. He didn’t care if he sounded petty or childish. He was itching to get outside, to throw himself off a building and into free fall, swinging weightless above the city. He missed it. “It’s been a week! A _week_!”

Brian ignored him, focussing on their developing game of cards. “Got any threes?” 

Peter sighed hugely as he was forced to hand over a card. “Why is it taking so _long_ to recover?” Peter said.  

“You almost _died,_ Peter. Of course it’s going to take a little longer to recover. Besides, it’s only been a week.”

“I”m going to literally start climbing the walls—y’know, because _I can do that."_  

Brian’s stare was flat, unimpressed. “Uh huh.”

“Seriously!” Peter waved a hand around his sterile white room. “One day you’re going to visit and I’m going to be clinging to the ceiling, chewing on the light fixtures!”

Peter fell silent, panting from his outburst. Brian calmly raised an eyebrow. “Got any twos?”

Peter threw his handful of cards at Brian’s spluttering face, and collapsed back onto his mound of pillows. (The nurses were slipping him extra pillows, like the gods and goddesses they were.) 

“Go fish,” Peter mumbled angrily into a pillow.

 

* * *

 

 

 

Peter had been sleeping on and off throughout the week. Thankfully, as he recovered, he’d began to just take naps through the day, rather than the long, coma-like sleeps he’d been taking a week ago.

Peter awoke from such a nap to a silent room. The first thing he saw upon blinking his eyes open was Brian, asleep by Peter’s side, head pillowed in his arms. The TV in the corner of the room was still on, though muted. 

Peter assumed from the echoing quiet that it was the graveyard shift at the hospital. Peter knew hospitals had designated visiting hours, but he had yet to see them imposed on Brian. Actually, Peter seemed to be an exception to a lot of the hospital rules. (Several of the younger nurses—and some of the kindly older nurses, too—had been slipping Peter extra jello cups . He’d be worried about getting fat, if it wasn’t for his increased metabolism, and the continuous bouts of vomiting.) 

Late night news played silently on the small TV. Peter’s attention was caught as the screen changed from a calm TV studio, to shaky, blurry footage taken from a bystander’s iPhone. He could just make out a sea of parked cars and police cruisers, several figures standing amongst it. They were hunched behind cars, guns in hand, firing upon the police officers gathered on the opposite side of the street.

The horizontal text at the bottom of the screen read, _Gunmen in shoot out with NYPD, 3 people presumed dead._  

Peter’s heart was stuck in his throat, his hands twisted up in the sheets. He had been sleeping while this happened, while 3 people _died_ …

His abdomen was throbbing painfully, and he felt exhausted despite sleeping half the day, but Peter had fought injured before. He’d protected people while sick. This illness wasn’t that different.  


Peter was careful as he slipped out of bed and rummaged through the cupboard in the corner for his tucked away suit. There weren’t any nearby nurses to walk in on him and try and stop him, only Brian, sleeping unaware as Peter slid open his hospital window, crawled out into the cold night air, and leapt deeper into the city.

 

* * *

 

 

Upon later reflection, Peter would realise that crime fighter while gravely ill was not the best idea. 

It should have been an easy job. Jump in, web up the criminals, jump out. But Peter’s limbs were shaky. His thoughts were soupy and slow, his reflects shot to nothing.

Peter’s graceful landing was ruined as he stumbled upon impact, his legs refusing to support his weight. His mumbled ‘ow-crap- _why_ ’ alerted the gunmen to his presence. They turned to him, guns trained on his wobbling figure.

“You just can’t take a sick day in this city, can you?” Peter said, shaking his head. The criminals fired, and Peter rolled to avoid it. Usually, this was like a sport, dodging bullets and throwing quips with ease, but now, Peter barely missed the spray of bullets. “Hey, watch it! You could’ve _shot_ me!"  

“That’s the idea,” said the closest criminal, as he focussed his gun and fired again.

Peter backflipped over the roof of a pick-up truck, taking refuge behind its thick steel doors. “Rude,” he called over the sound of ricocheting bullets.

Peter could hear the gunmen cursing. The NYPD, gathered a safe distance from the criminals, began to shout over the sound of gunfire. There was a commotion from the officers, some panicked scramble. Peter wasn’t close enough to see what the fuss was about.

Peter leant down, attempting to see the criminals beneath the small gap between the low truck and the asphalt, but his insides _burned_ at the movement, like a knife had been plunged into his stomach and _twisted_. Peter fell to ground with a bit off scream.

“Okay,” Peter murmured, “okay, this may not have been my best plan.”

Officers peeked worriedly over the tops of police cars, one brave cop trying to leap over hood, only to be yanked down by a round of bullets and one of his colleague’s grabbing onto his shirtsleeve and hauling him behind cover. The bullets whizzed past, a hairsbreadth from the officer's skull. Anxiety twisted in Peter’s chest. 

“Hey!” All humorous quips fell off of his tongue, a growing fever fogging his thoughts. Still, the criminals turned from the police officers to Peter, standing in the tray of the pick-up truck.

There was no time for playing with the criminals today. Peter used webs to bound the closest gunman. A second raised his gun to Peter, and he snatched it away with a flick of his wrist and a jolt of web.

A third gunmen growled, leaping to his feet and throwing his gun up, finger on the trigger. Peter’s spidey-sense was lost beneath the growing roar in his head, unreachable under the illness. Before the criminal could fire, a police officer with steady aim beat him to it. The shot connected with the criminal’s back, and the man folded under the pain, his gun skidding out of reach.

Peter threw up a hand to wave his thanks. The officer who’d taken the third criminal down began to raise his own hand in acknowledge, but froze, eyes going wide. A shout was curled on the man’s tongue, his whole body lunging forward in panic.

Peter hadn’t accounted for a fourth gunman. 

This time, his legs were too slow to carry him safely away, and Peter went down in a bloom of pain and a spray of blood. 

Sounds of further gunfire followed, but Peter, face pressed into the road, gasping wetly against the hard ground, couldn’t understand anything under the roar of pain. There was the sounds of a scuffle, pounding footsteps, shouting. 

A pair of hands reached him, and Peter was turned onto his back. The hands clamped tight against the bullet wound his shoulder—bare inches from his heart, Peter would find out later—but blood still came, flowing thick around the pressing fingers. Blood was dripping into his eyes from a cut on his temple, but Peter was still able to see the swimming faces of the cops crowded around him. They were leaning forward, peering at him with something almost like concern, like panic, eyes locked on his bullet wound with fear. Blearily, Peter could recognised some of them, the ones who sometimes visited him in hospital—officer DeWolff with her concern like unrelenting steel, officer Cellanos with her shaky hands, officer Davis with his smiles and sugary pastries… 

None of them tried to take off his mask. For this, Peter was grateful.

Peter’s blood pooled beneath him, soaking through his suit and wetting the ground. There were hands on him, voices shouting around him. 

“What was he _doing_?”

“He’s not supposed to be out of the hospital, right?!”

“Spider-Man? Spidey!”

Peter looked up into the frantic, familiar eyes of Cellanos. Her hands were shaking were they were pressed against his shoulder, her fingers covered in his blood. 

Peter tried to sound casual as he looked at her, and said, “Talk about deja vu, amiright?" 

It had been a week and a half since Peter had been laid out in the middle of a public New York street, throwing up blood, a bomb full of diseases having detonated in his stomach. Several of the cops around him frowned at the reference, some glancing at Peter with disproval. Still, he got the reaction he wanted; the police woman looked less afraid, and she laughed shakily, the sound wet with tears.

The sky above them was beginning to lighten, dawn slowly encroaching upon the city. It was early morning. Soon, the hospital would return to its busy, crowded state. Hospital employees would be coming to check up on him. Brian would wake up. 

Everyone would know he’d snuck out and almost gotten himself killed (might still get himself killed, if the blood spilt out around him and the weighted exhaustion pressing at his skull was anything to go by). 

At least they wasn’t enough time for Brian to properly panic at Peter’s disappearance. He’d be returning to his landlord soon enough, albeit in a bloodier state than before…

“Spidey?” A hand touched his arm, trying to get his attention. His head had lolled to the side, his eyes having slid shut. “Spidey, I need you to stay awake. The ambulance is almost here, okay? Can you hear the sirens?”

Peter couldn’t. He couldn’t hear much of anything. He felt like he was underwater, all the sounds distant, distorted. 

“ _Shit_ , he’s falling asleep—”

“His pulse is weak!”

“Spidey? Spidey, stay with us, come on, open your eyes—!”

 

* * *

 

 

When Peter remembered first being taken to the hospital,a little over a week ago, he remembered relieved sighs and watery eyes. He remembered an ER room full of people celebrating his safe return.

This time, Peter bypassed the ER altogether. Like last time, there was grit in his eyes, a mask on his face, his body thrumming with pain. But now, when Peter awoke, Brian was leant against the far wall and talking into his phone.

“I don’t know, Kath,” Brian was saying. His voice sounded wrecked. “He’s—he’s a hero, isn’t he? This is what heroes do, they get hurt. I just…” Brian’s voice dropped, becoming quieter, “The ambulance brought him in, and he looked like he did all those weeks ago, when I broke down the door and found him, half-dead and so _still_ …” Brian exhaled. It sounded vaguely wet. “But this time, I care more. I—I can’t watch this kid get hurt, Kath. I just—can’t…”

Brian’s voice was a near whisper, a confession breathed out in a dim hospital room. Peter felt like he was intruding on something private. He closed his eyes, and went back to sleep.

 

* * *

 

 

“I understand if you want to leave,” Peter said upon his second awakening. The pain in his shoulder was bright, still present, but he had been sedated for some time; his healing factor, coupled with pain killers, was helping greatly. 

Brian, slumped in his usual plastic chair, stilled. He looked up sharply. “What?”

“It’s fine if you want to leave,” Peter repeated. “I get it.”

“You…” Brian scrubbed a hand through his thinning hair. He looked exhausted and older than ever; he had huge bags under his eyes, and his shirt was wrinkled, coffee staining the hem. “You think I want to leave? Do you _want_ me to leave, Peter? Because if you want to be alone—”  

“No, no!” Peter said. “I don’t want you to go, but if you…” Peter picked at his blanket, unable to meet Brian’s gaze. “If you _want_ to leave, then you should.”  

“I don’t want to leave,” Brian said.

“I’d understand,” Peter continued, not listening to Brian. “Honestly, I’d get if you did. It’s probably disappointing, right? And annoying, and exhausting. Superheroes seem bigger and so much more capable from a distant, but close up—” Peter’s fists dug into the blanket. “—close up, they’re weaker and… and disappointing.”

Brian’s face was unreadable. “Are you talking about yourself? You're not disappointing, or annoying, or even that exhausting, kid.”

“I heard you talking earlier,” Peter confessed. “I know you want to leave.” 

“Talking with my daughter?” Peter nodded, and Brian sighed. “I don’t want to leave, Pete. I was upset that you went out and got yourself hurt. It’s hard for me to see you all busted up, but because I care about you, not because you’re a _hassle_ , or anything.”

Brian reached out, his gentle touch brushing against Peter’s arm. “Do you really think I’d want to leave?” Brian asked. “Do you really think all that about yourself?” 

Peter focussed on an indistinct spot on the blanket. “It’s just—” he began, before cutting himself off and shaking his head, frustration making his face feel hot in the way a fever never quite could. “I just feel so _useless_!”  

“Peter,” Brian began.

Peter shook his head. He was shaking minutely. 

“No! How can I look after New York like this?” All the things that had slowly built up, all those private doubts, came spilling out. That bullet had raptured skin and muscle, but it also broken something, ripped through Peter’s barriers, and now all his insecurities came pouring forth, like blood slipping out onto starch white sheets.“If I’m hospitalised so easily how am I supposed to protect people? New York deserves someone else, someone stronger and more put together and _better_ than me! The cops—Jameson— _everyone_ was right. I got sick so _easily_ , I’m _useless_ —”

“ _Peter_!” Brian stood up abruptly. His hands slammed down on the metal bed frame, rattling it.  

Peter swallowed thickly—his mouth felt heavy with salvia, his face burning from embarrassment and anger and the remnants of a fever. 

“Peter,” Brian continued, voice paced slow, so Peter could properly digest his words. “You didn't get sick because you’re weak. You got sick because you sacrificed yourself to protect millions of people. Do you know how many people have crappy immune systems in this city? Children and old folks and pregnant ladies and sick people—they all would be dead if you hadn’t taken that bomb and swallowed it.” Brian huffed, a little angry, a little proud. “I’m not saying that it wasn’t a dumb thing to do, but it was _heroic_.”  

Peter opened his mouth to refute that statement. Brian waved his hands around, silencing the teenager. 

“Nope, not finished! Do you have any idea what happened after you disappeared? Do you?” Numbly, Peter shook this head. “This city _panicked_ , Peter. I didn’t realise a city could care so deeply and on such a wide scale until you happened. They care because you care, because you fight tooth and nail to protect New York.”

“Just because some people got a little worried—” 

Brian shook his head, eyes wide in disbelief. “‘A little worried?’ _‘Some people?’_ Shit, Peter! Do you not know how _crazy_ everyone went?”

Peter shook his head, eyes focussed on his balled up hands in his lap. “I was a little busy at the time,” Peter said wryly. He tried for a light tone, but the joke fell flat, feeling awkward in the quiet air.

Without a word, Brian turned on his heel and stalked out of the hospital room. Peter gaped after him. Brian returned moments later, weighed down by a plastic crate full of paper. 

“This is how much they care,” Brian said, and without preamble, he raised the crate over the teenager’s head and tipped it upside down.

Peter was showered in dozens of pieces of folded paper. Sealed envelopes, folded up letters, ripped exercise paper—so much, so many, spilt out over his hospital bed, blanketing his lap.

Peter stared down at the pile, eyes wide. Was this—?

It was. Peter picked up a child’s drawing, markers on soft blue paper. A tall, grinning figure— _Spider-Man,_ Peter realised, staring down at the red and blue limbs with something like awe—stood in the centre of the page. A broken school bus stood on one side, a pigtailed little girl on the other.

 The bottom of the page, in child’s messy scrawl, read, _Thank you for saving me, Spider-Man. Get well soon!_ It was signed _Love from_ _Alecia._

“Okay,” Brian called toward the door, “who has the rest of it?”

Kala, and Samantha, and three other nurses trotted in after Brian, all of them holding bags stuffed full. Samantha raised an eyebrow at the mail piled in Peter’s lap.

“Thought he wasn’t looking at these yet,” Samantha said.

“Well, yeah,” Brian said with an eye roll, “but he was being stupid, saying all this stuff about how he’s not good enough, how supposedly only ‘some people’ got worried when he was sick, blah blah blah.”

Samantha narrowed her eyes at Peter. “In that case then,” she said, and tipped her bag of mail over Peter, much like Brian had. 

For a second time, letters and drawings and cards rained down over Peter. 

“You _moron_ ,” Kala said. She was grinning as she stepped forward and turned her own bag upside down, seeming to take great pleasure from smothering Peter with a downpour of mail. 

The three other nurses glanced from their own bulging bags to Peter. One of them bit his lip, and asked, “Should we also…?”

“No!” Peter was covered in a mountain of mail, so much it covered his lap, spread all over his legs, and spilled over the sides and onto the floor. “No more!” 

“We have a room,” Brian said. “A whole _room_ fullof stuff sent to you after you were hospitalised, and you think people don’t _care_?”

Peter took a deep breath. Let it out. He felt shaky, confused, a little disbelieving. “Why didn’t anyone tell me?”

Kala frowned at him. “Well, first of all, you _should’ve_ been resting this past week. Resting as in sleeping. The flowers were vetoed, and you weren’t supposed to eat lots of the food they sent—no dairy and not too much sugar, remember? But you got given the soup.”

“The _soup_?” Peter asked.  

Brian stared blankly at him, unimpressed. “People sent you _chicken soup,_ Spidey _._ You still think they don’t care?”  

Peter fiddled with the edges of a handmade card. The clicking of a camera caused him to look up. Kala didn’t even have the grace to look guilty.

“For twitter,” she said. She gestured at the letters spread out around him. “This makes for a good photo.”

“Actually,” Brian began, glancing from Peter, to the nurses, to the flowing pile of fan mail, “I have an idea.”

 

* * *

 

 

The video would be uploaded to twitter some time later. The footage was shaky but clear enough, filmed on a handheld smartphone.

A pretty, dark skinned nurse stepped into frame. She shared a smile with the person behind the camera. “This was a great idea, Brian,” she whispered. “He’s going to flip out.”

Offscreen, a male voice called, “I can still hear you, Kala! It’s Hawkeye that’s deaf, not me.” 

The camera swivelled to the side, revealing a man leaning against the wall. He wore a hospital gown—a pale blue, and without the typical open back—and the iconic red mask, complete with red gloves that came up to his elbows, and a pair of homemade socks that, if one was to look closer, had webbed partners of red and blue knitted into it.

Spidey stared at the camera. “Brian, when you asked for my permission to film this, I’d pretty much thought you were joking.”

“The people need proof you weren’t killed by own stupidity,” Brian said. “They—”

He was interrupted by a freckled nurse rushing into frame, a lanyard full of keys thumping against her scrubs. “I got it! I got the keys!”

Kala gestured at the locked door beside them. “Hurry up then, Samantha.”

Samantha fumbled with the keys, struggling for a moment to find the right one, before successfully unlocked the door, and twisting the door handle. Spidey fiddled with his gloved fingers, clearly nervous. 

“Ready?” Kala asked. 

“As I’ll ever be,” Spidey said, shrugging. He was trying to project an easy casualness, but his wobbly voice betrayed him. 

Spidey shuffled forward on shaky legs; the illness and bullet wound had left him unsteady and stiff. He hovered at the threshold of the closed door, and drew in a deep, grounding breath, before pushing the door open. It swung inwards, and Spidey let out a surprised gasp and stumbled back three quick steps.

“What the—?” He looked at the camera, hands bunched at his side. “Is this some kind of a joke?”

Kala and Samantha shared elated grins, and Brian laughed. When he spoke, he sounded fond, a little proud. “This isn’t a joke, Spidey.”

Spidey exhaled shakily, glancing back at the open door. “That’s… That’s _all_ for _me_?”

“It’s all for you,” Kala said. Her eyes were soft and kind as she watched the hero take several tentative steps forward, hovering in the door’s threshold. 

He looked around the room, amazed, slowly drinking in the sight. “Why would people send all this? Why would—why would so many people…?”

“Care?” Kala tried. Spidey nodded silently, and Kala shook her head, huffing out an exasperated breath. It was clear to the viewer that they had been through this, that this conversation had been had before. “You’re a hero, remember? You’re New York’s hero. You’ve proven how much you care, and how much you’re personally willing to sacrifice for this city. People want to repay you, and show you how much _they_ care.” 

Spidey shook his head again. He was listening to Kala’s words, but his concentration kept drifting, drawn towards the open door and the room behind it. “I still don’t…” he began. 

“Look how banged up you are, Spidey,” Samantha said as she stepped forward, and gestured at the injured hero. “You got like that protecting strangers. People don’t—” She cut herself off, swallowing. “People don’t forget that.”

Spidey offered no more words. His gloved fingers tangled on the hospital gown over his bellybutton, hanging on for support. 

“Go on, kid,” said Brian, tone soft. 

Spidey stepped into the room. After a pause, the camera followed him in.

The room had once been an empty ward, and still contained the skeleton frames of three old hospital beds. Now though, it was covered, filled to the brim, the bed frames stacked high full of gifts. 

On one of the metal frames, someone had stacked piles of stuffed animals, so many that they spilled over the sides, another dozen resting upon the vinyl floor. The toys sat upright, fluffy paws facing Spidey’s frozen feet. A pale blue teddy bear—so large it would have reached up to his chin—sat waiting in the far corner. _Get well soon!_ was scrawled in looping thread on its stomach. 

The second bed frame was occupied by containers and thermos and baskets of miscellaneous items. Spidey could see brownies, cookies, homemade casseroles beneath the plastic containers. Some had cards tapped onto the side. Many of thermos had tags wrapped around the necks.There were baskets too; many of the wicker baskets were store bought—complete with the standard jar of tea or coffee, a tin of biscuits, bottles of soaps and small squished teddies. Some were filled with muffins, or were clearly homemade with recipes tucked into the sides, filled with jars of honey and tissues and packets of Tylenol. 

(“Who,” Kala would later complain, as Spidey sat cross-legged in the middle of the room, inspecting each gift with a careful, awed touch, “sends medicine to a _hospital_? Come on! Did they think we were going to _run out?!_ ” 

Spidey cocked his head, considering the tiny mountain of gifted tissue packets stacked at the side of the room. “Maybe it’s for when I get sent home? So I won’t have to rush out and buy some?”

“Oh,” Kala relented, “that… that makes more sense.”)

On the last bed frame, spilled out over the edges, were dozens of multicolour flowers. There were so many that each bouquet became lost under the collective mass, becoming one whole blooming garden just for him. Spidey didn’t know much about flowers, but he was mesmerised by the sight, eyes tracing the curve of petals, the beautifully arrangement of each one. He let out a tiny, wondrous breath.

The back wall was lined with ‘get well soon’ balloons, more crates and bags of mail, a pile of books and sudoku puzzles—there was barely any space in the room around the hundreds of gifts.  

Spidey stood in the middle of it all, shoulders shaking minutely, hands fisted in his hospital robes.

“This is—this is…” His voice was shaking.

“Yeah,” Kala said softly, leant against a wall, surveying her patient with careful eyes. “You okay?”

Spidey nodded. “I think so. I’m just… overwhelmed?”

“No witty remarks this time?” Kala asked with a smile. Spidey didn’t laugh, only shook his head seriously. “Okay, well, anything you want to tell the people?”

Spidey strode back across the room, back held straight, shoulders squared. He might accidentally hurt himself doing that, jostle or tear at his injured shoulder while moving too quickly, especially while still in such a tender state, but Kala didn’t interfere. She knew how important this was, and let him be, watching him for any sign, a single falter. He gave none.

Spidey stood in front of the camera. He inhaled a deep, grounding breath.

“Thank you,” Spidey said, voice a little low, a little raw. He sounded shaken, but in a good way—a touched, sentimental way. “Thank you for caring, and for all the support, and for not trying to arrest me or throw stuff at me anymore.” He laughed a little. The jut of his smile was visible even below his mask. 

“I do what I do because I love New York,” he continued, “and all its people. I’d get hurt again a thousand times over, if I had to. I don’t want people to send me things because they feel like they have to, or that they owe me—”

“They send them because they want to,” Brian cut in. “Not because of any misplaced sense of guilty, you moron.”

“Well, in that case… In that case, thank you. This means a lot.” Spidey swallowed. “Means more than I can say." 

Then, Spidey sneezed violently. The force sent him stumbling back several paces. He rubbed at his nose, before sneezing several more times in quick succession.

“Bless you,” Brian said.

“Okay,” Kala announced, voice form, “I’m calling it! That’s enough. You’re going to rupture your stitches with all that sneezing and all this excitement—”

“Aww! But I was having fun—” 

“It’s enough for _now_ ,” Kala allowed. “You can come down here later, okay?”

Spidey sighed. “Okay, mom.”

Kala whirled on the camera. “Thanks and all, but can you people _please_ stop sending in flowers? It makes this lug—” She gestured back at Spidey with her thumb. “—sneeze like crazy.”

Spidey let Kala led him out of the room, the sounds of their easy bickering echoing down the hallway. Samantha trailed after them, muffling her laughter in the palm of her hand. 

The video was uploaded later that day, and simply entitled _thank you_.

There was an influx of gifts and mail in the wake of the video. Peter stopped trying to sneak away from the nurses, submitted to Brian’s fond fussing, welcomed the steady flow of shy police officers with a cheery grin and open arms. 

This—a warm bed beneath him, concerned people around him, a city full of helping hands, an alive support system, ready to return Peter’s undying fondness with gusto—was surprising. Overwhelming. A little frightening. 

Peter wouldn’t trade it for the world.

  


End file.
